


Knight With The Electric Eyes

by faufaren



Category: NieR: Automata (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demon Hunters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Fluff, Headcannons Galore, Hurt/Comfort, Size Difference, Torture, incubus au, non android au, some bloodborne vibes, strength play, will raise rating on last chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-18 14:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faufaren/pseuds/faufaren
Summary: 9S is an incubus who gets into some rough times. And 2B is the demon hunter who saves him.





	1. The Huntress

**Author's Note:**

> Tried out a different writing style for this one. It’s more… poetic? Anyway, I thought it would suit this kind of story. Although it quickly became tiresome after a while, haha.

He knows his curiosity is his greatest flaw. 

But it’s in his title––9S. _The Ninth Seeker._ Curiosity is as part of him as his blood. New discovery is his directive, his core driving force. 

The other demons, they’re all unique each to their own ways. For the most part, however, they fight, they destroy, they manipulate and twist and unmake. The tales about demons are not quite untrue, but 9S has always been set apart from the rest of his kin. 

He has never been well-suited for hunts, even if it is to eat. He’ll run if he can, defend when he can’t, but he would much rather _learn_ than hurt or kill. 

It doesn’t matter tonight, though. 

Tonight, he’s being Hunted. 

Prey for another stronger, meaner, hungrier predator. 

There are hands that hold him down, big, rough hands that leave bruising impressions on his flesh without thought for kindness or pity. They press down between his shoulders and pin him to the ground, regardless of his flailing struggles, his frightened growls. 

Trapped, helpless, eyes wide in terror. 

Panting, quick and thin, breath caught in his throat. 

The bite of iron is a shock to his system. A shackle clamped around his wrist, chain looped around his slim neck. Iron, unfamiliar and agonizing, the essence poison to things like him. It makes him gasp in pain, pulling the air out from his lungs as the burning overwhelms all rational thought. 

The fire spreads, like a disease. 

When he’s fully bound, blind, deaf, and paralyzed, a hand reaches down, wraps around his chin and brings his face up. 

He whines, eyes squeezed tight, face twisted, trying not drown under the crashing waves of fear and pain. 

_You are a sweet one, aren't you? So sweet._

A male voice, lilting and playful. There’s a taunt in there, juvenile, like a child delighted by a helpless creature in their careless grasp. 

Tears, no longer held back, slip down pale cheeks and a thumb swipes them away, almost––greedily. He hears a chuckle, something dark, something _covetous_ , as if driven by a desire to get more out of him. Collect from him, milk him for all he’s worth… harvest more scared gasps and pained whimpers from his body. His breath hitches. 

_Don’t be afraid._ Words belonging to another man, crooned softly into his ears, breath hot on the skin of his neck. They drip from the man’s lips like silk, lazily, languid, like thick mercury. _We’re not going to kill you. You are still useful to us, and besides, I think death is boring._

 _You’re ours to keep,_ the first voice hisses, with a childish glee that makes it all the more chilling. 

Two figures loom over him, transformed into vaguely distinguishable, monstrous silhouettes that only promise a whole slew of indefinite tortures. His flesh burns, boiling where the iron chains touch him. Everything blurs. 

Wrists bound, legs shackled, wings clipped. Freedom––stripped away, torn from a desperate grasp. 

He closes his eyes, head falling forward. Resignation, despair. No hope of escape. He’s––tired. 

_Sleep._ Fingers brush over his face, tracing over unhappy features, over tear tracks. Up, to tangle in his hair and then slip down through the soft locks, in a caress that is almost a mockery of tenderness. _We’ll have fun_

_later._

* * *

There’s a hunt on for tonight. 

The moon hangs high in the night sky, fat and full and heavy. The sky is clear, black as ink, the stars blink lazily down from the cosmos. Hunters with blood kissed by the moon, with the soul-flare of the heavens, will feel Her blessing thrumming through their veins. 

A good night for a Hunt. 

Tonight’s hunt, however, is different from others. A different hunt, for a different sort. Her mission orders are given to her through hushed murmurs, unnoticed shadows, secret meetings in discrete locations. The streets are silent as she prowls through them, animals quiet and wind still, because the mask of a wolf rests upon her face. 

The wolf, marking her as a hunter of hunters. The prey she hunts tonight have neither wings nor feathered horns, neither sharp claws nor curved fangs. 

The prey she hunts tonight is human. 

2B strikes a fearsome figure when she comes knocking at the door, rendered all but a tall, imposing silhouette with the hallow of moonlight at her back. 

She’s an avenging angel this time, YorHa’s deliverer of retribution. Sent to arrest two hunters gone rogue, for crimes of assault and murder upon fellow hunters. A pair of brothers, a warlock and a berserker. Both powerful, but not powerful enough. 

The first is easy enough to strike down, with a sword to the chest that leaves him gurgling on his own blood. The other, the brother called Eve, lets out a cry––raw grief, pure _fury_. With arms raised, fists clenched, he slams down into the ground and it shatters the earth, dissolving into fragments and little pieces of dust and debris. Teeth bared, eyes shining with hatred, Eve slips away in the chaos. 

When the dust settles, there is no sight of him, no tracks to follow. 2B prepares to give pursuit regardless, but then she 

hears 

a sound. 

She turns away. Pursuit abandoned, the hunter diverted. There is something more important. 

A sound, meaning movement, meaning life. Life, in the heart of a place belonging to two people who only loved pain, violence and each other. 

She follows where the sound lingers, faint, faded, deeper into the brothers’ lair. The ground strike had destroyed all light fixtures, plunging it all into darkness, so she murmurs to her familiar for a flame. 

When at last she sees what it is, she halts, freezes, blood running cold. 

Wrists strung up, legs arranged in broken angles. Bruises. Blue and black smeared across pale flesh, like blooming flowers of the worst kind. 

Curling horns, and the feathered wings indicative of an incubus. 

Chains, thin and dark with iron, burning flesh where they make contact. Wrapped tightly around small, thin limbs, keeping the creature’s head lowered, submissive. Dark blood, sliding down to catch on those chains and soaking feathers, painting the floor with its stain. 

It’s a poor, pitiful sight. 

… even for a demon. 

The pale head shifts, moves incrementally, struggling beneath all the layers of agony. The chains clink softly, and it’s the sound she had heard before. 

Slim shoulders tremble, neck straining to turn so that a single silver eye can catch her from behind a spill of dirty pale hair. It’s despondent, hope worn and spent, a dead gaze staring at her. Exhausted.

* * *

There’s no telling how much time had passed since he was captured. Minutes had blurred into days, but seconds had stretched out into grueling, crawling hours. 

The hunger claws within him, hollowing him out with cruelly sharp nails. What little scraps that had been dangled within reach of him are toxic, bitter, serving for no other purpose than to torment him further. They laugh at him as he chokes, gags, and swallows down the meager offerings, too desperate to fill the empty gaping inside him to care that it is poison. 

They find amusement in imprisoning him, in depriving and starving him. They leave him trembling and gasping after every session, shivering to pieces in the burning taint of his iron binds. 

Thoughts—derailing, suspended in freefall. Desperate cries, words slurring. 

Reality becomes nightmare and he can no longer discern where one ends and the other begins. 

Vaguely, beyond the fog of agony, he is aware of a fight occurring outside his prison. 

He hears footsteps approach, hears the light prowl of a predator coming for him barely through the deafening ringing in his ears. 

Although it’s different. The presence that stops at the threshold feels less—eager. Less _malicious._ Such a stark contrast to what he’s known for what seems like endless eternity, he finds strength to lift his head, grasping, struggling, to meet the newcomer. 

_Help,_ he thinks desperately but doesn’t dare breath it out. _Please…_

A footstep. The sheer terror crashes over him, a wave of white noise overwhelming his senses as he jerks in his chains, trying to get away. 

Another footstep, slow and deliberate, and he goes

limp. 

Submission. Resignation. What could he do? 

A helpless doe, caught in brambles. A rabbit fallen into a trap. Iron simmers against his flesh, causing new blood to slip down his skin. There is no escape.

* * *

Of all the things she expected to find—an enemy ally, a captured comrade, a critter caught in the destruction of the battle—she didn’t expect to find a young incubus, bearing all the marks of abuse, suffering, torture. 

An atrocity so cruel, so vile, something revolts in even 2B. 

She approaches, takes just a step forward and it makes the creature flinch, flailing violently in his binds and sending a clatter ringing through the chamber. 

Another step and the struggles cease, gone as if drained out. The head sags, limbs dangle, strength of will snuffed out like a sputtering candle. A weary acceptance, one that makes her tongue taste bitter. 

She reaches down, gloved hand taking a hold of that little face. Lifts his head up, sees the faint quiver, sees pale lashes flutter. 

An iron bit, digging cruelly into soft lips. Not quite a muzzle, not quite able to muffle _noises_ , but meant to keep the creature’s teeth from biting, keep his mouth from closing. 

Fresh blood wells up from the corner of that mouth, overflowing, then slipping down to pool around the leather of her gloves. A soft noise, weak and pained–– _terrified._

She is a Hunter. Sworn in by her guild, tempered through the trials of the Moon, and marked in rituals to receive the greatest of Her blessings. The little incubus before her must sense the strength of her patron goddess running in her veins, must see the mask of the wolf upon her face, marking her as one of the strongest. 

But a Hunter’s creed is one that promises quick mercy. They are trained to be swift, silent, bloodless. Their kills are meant to be clean and efficient, death brought to their prey without suffering. 

This is… 

A living creature caught and tortured. Kept, chained and confined and confused, for _entertainment._

No matter how ruthless she is famed to be, even 2B is not capable of such an abominable crime. 

_No one deserves this._ She reaches around to unclasp that iron bar. It falls, and she makes quick work of the pitiful creature’s chains, unwinding them to pile around her feet. 

He starts slipping as soon as he’s free, arms allowed to drop, knees weak. Crumpling, like a puppet with cut strings, before she catches him in her arms. 

There’s a sound, a breathless, desperate noise that’s almost unwillingly dragged out from bloodied lips. And he burrows deeper, face turning, to press sweetly into the dark fabric of her outfit as if seeking _comfort._

So startled is she that she almost drops the creature back onto the floor. Instead, she––adjusts. Arranges limbs to fit more comfortably in her hold, the weight so slight it barely feels like she’s carrying anything at all. It is a bit ridiculous. Her swords are heavier than this. 

He feels so delicate, so small, so _fragile._

She could crush him right there, right now. It would be so easy, so simple. Just––one hand, wrapped tight around that bruised throat, squeezing, leather creaking, until she feels the sudden decisive _snap_ ––

Well. 

To release the young creature from his suffering only to strike him down in the next moment, well, that’s a bit cruel, even for her. 

Instead, she picks him up and walks out of the chamber. She still has a mission to complete, a Hunt left unfinished. The second half of her prey roams free out in the world, beyond the limits of her reach. Perhaps the little incubus in her arms knows where his captor went. 

(... and she ignores the little niggling voice that whispers, smug and knowing, that’s not quite the real reason she had spared him.)


	2. The Incubus

What does a hunter do with a demon? 

Usually the answer is straightforward, simply-worded––the kind of easy, unconvoluted solutions she prefers. 

The situation at hand is… not something she has ever encountered before. Not something she thought she would ever find herself in. 

2B has always been famed among her peers to be a lone wolf, independent and self-sufficient. A solo Hunter that everyone else knows better than to interfere with. 

The other hunters, however, some of them prefer to work in pairs, or even in groups. In _packs._

And a few hunt in Hordes. 

Fire against fire. Demonkind against demonkind. These are the hunters who collect their prey like pretty marbles, keeping them on leash like pets, as attack hounds. 

2B has always found the practice distasteful, though she, like all other Hunters, still keep the necessary stock in her home, for… emergency purposes. 

(Those same equipment, she knows, were used by the brother pair of hunters, though theirs were more… inhumane. Savage. Designed to inflict _pain_ , rather than to merely subdue.) 

He starts shivering halfway back to her home. 

By the time she pushes through the doorway and begins the descent down the stairs that lead to her basement, the shivers have turned into trembling. She feels them through the fabric, through her arms wrapped around his body, running down his spine. His wings flutter, shift, brushing quiveringly against her shoulder. 

His breath is too quick, too labored. Short and shallow puffs of air, that warm against the exposed skin of her breast. 

She puts a palm over his head—long fingers nearly engulfing that small cranium, sifting through pale locks and cradling lightly—intending nothing but to _soften_ those shivers, terrible, terrified tremors of a creature overwhelmed by fear. 

They stop immediately. Although the sharp scent of fear gets worse, the body in her arms now held so still, so limp, waiting. Waiting for her to crush his skull in between her fingers. 

(There is nothing to suggest that she isn’t capable of it. The incubus is young for his kind, young and potent, but nonetheless still growing into his true influence. His horns are small, wings like spun glass. His body is dainty and diminutive, designed for temptation, for lowering guards, for taking unsuspecting prey by surprise. Not a fighter.) 

(His bones. Small and frail and bird-thin. It would be _brutally easy._ )

Kneeling, she sets the creature down. There’s no protest, no fight or struggle, no attempt at escape. He settles onto the floor, wings spilling from her hold, and stays there, quietly, still trembling.

* * *

He’s picked up and taken away, away from the place that had been his prison for an unspeakable time. He’s glad, even if his destination may be something equally as damning, or worse. 

Relieved, even if he’s carried in arms clothed in the black and white garb of another Hunter. 

There’s power, strength, fierce and steady, and filled to brimming. He feels it coursing, like hot blood, through the arms that hold him and the chest upon which his head rests. Taste of the infinite cosmos, fragrance of fallen stars, the soul-fire of a Hunter burning within. 

It’s––devastating. All too tempting. Blood of the hunters has always been something that have driven the demons a little mad. Such purity, such unadulterated power that can only come from an intimate bond with the vast, ancient Moon whose kingdom is beholden to no demon, as impure as their ilk are. Such close contact with it is… heady. Intoxicating. 

And _terrifying._

The air becomes cooler, damper, as they descend somewhere underground. 

Perhaps he’s being led to a more swift death. 

Fear turns to dread. Terror turns to panic. His breathing quickens, so _scared_ that he’s being carried to slaughter. 

The floor is smooth and cool, soothing against the iron burns on his flesh, looping around his limbs and still dripping in pain. 

Runes, lining the floor and the walls, gathering at the stairs and the entrance above. Runes for _subduing_ , not killing. He finds it blissfully relieving, merciful, despite the energy being worn away from the contact, despite it leaving him dull and lethargic. A deep-seated weariness, reaching down to his bone. 

He makes himself stay still, and tries to trust that the torture will stop. His wings sag, almost unconsciously. A gesture of compliance, of _obedience._

The sounds of chains, light and thin. He flinches, recoils out of trained fear. 

His wrists are taken and steel shackles are clamped around them, spelled strong and sturdy despite their appearance. Steel is better than iron, he tries to tell himself. Infinitely better, although he can’t stop the wave of nausea at being locked up, confined, yet again. 

His breath hitches, caught halfway down his throat, and he thinks blindly, through the haze of overwhelming terror—no, _please—_

_Just let me go..._

The word is pulled out of him, as if by an unseen hand, whispered desperately on the next breath. 

“P-please…”

* * *

Runes activated, shackles locked. Spelled steel, being the best alternative over iron. Although it’s quite costly, and not as infallible, at least steel will not burn. 

The creature is sufficiently secure in the belly of her abode. If the steel breaks and the runes fail, she is confident enough in her own abilities to think that she can defend herself, can keep herself from being raped in her own bed, torn to pieces for the powerful blood in her veins. 

Even then, she knows that sleep will come slowly to her for the next couple of nights. 

There’s an unsteady breath. A single word. A soft, whispered plea. 

She pauses at the stair, looking back. 

Trembling shoulders, curled protectively inward. Legs folded beneath him, arms held limply in front, weighed down by gleaming steel. Curling horns, head bowed, pale eyes staring miserably out between clumps of hair. 

Pity coils in her gut. It sinks in like a bitter taste, a heavy weight. Twisting. 

She tries to tell herself that she is only doing this for the sake of her unfinished Hunt. That taking him from that bloodied room and those iron chains is enough. 

Unable to ignore that, in the end, she is only continuing the creature’s suffering. 

She plans for it to only be temporary. The shackles and the runes, only fleeting safeguards. The demon contained in her basement is only for a few days. Put there—for safe-keeping. Just for the moment, while she formulates her next strategy. 

And then—

Well. She is a Hunter. There can only be one thing that comes afterward. 

She says, quite needlessly, “Behave.” 

And leaves.

* * *

The hunger had been there already but now it’s chewing on him, eating him, devouring from the inside as though it is trying to get out of him. 

He does not see the hunter for a while. The days blur. 

When before his captors had at least offered him some distorted perversion of companionship, however inadvertent it had been––now there is suddenly nothing. He finds himself completely alone, left abandoned in the dimly lit basement with its damning runes. 

Utter isolation. An all-annihilating loneliness. It leaves him shuddering in the roaring wake of it, shaking as if he is going to fall apart. 

His burns have not yet healed, but his wrists are bleeding new blood now, dark and sluggish. Too weak to break the spelled steel, as the runes still keep him tired, energy drained, scraping at the bottom of his reserves. 

The hunger gnaws quietly, unrelentingly, at him. He curls around himself, around that gaping emptiness, gasping desperately when it does not help. Eyes closed, fists clenched, he pleads brokenly for respite, for some form of relief, for anything. 

_(Please! Please, oh please—)_

Blood drips to the floor.  
There is no energy to open his mouth but he screams anyway. 

_(pleasepleasepleaseplease—)_

And at last it climbs to a high fever pitch and he wonders––wonders with a raw, bitter violence—

He wonders

_Why?_

Freed from iron, only to be locked in steel. Taken from his burning torture, yet only to replace it with another slower, kinder, horrifyingly _passive_ form of torment that may be even worse. 

It could be that the hunter merely does not know. Such a guiltless form of ignorance, he cannot honestly blame her. Their kinds are blood-sworn enemies. The demons would not admit such intimate secrets to the Hunters and their guilds. 

The hunter does not know. He is alone. 

And his hunger grows.

* * *

Sleep comes slowly, and it doesn’t come at all. 

The call of the incubus keeps her awake, staring sightlessly at a dark ceiling until she’s driven out of her own home. 

There are few establishments open at this time of the night, when it’s the pinnacle of the moon’s rise over the world. This is the time when all the doors are sealed and locked tight, windows barred and curtains drawn, incense burnt and lanterns lit to ward off any evils lurking in the night. 

The tavern a few streets away, however, is always open. 

A tavern run by hunters of a sister guild. It serves as a place for socializing, a central hub of information, and for weary hunters looking for a safe moment to eat and drink. 

Here, she finds a quiet place to rest. 

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” says the hunter keeping the bar that night when she appears at their doorstep for the third night in a row. Jackass is a crude-mouthed hunter, with a crackling humor that most others don’t quite understand, but nonetheless she’s an individual that 2B appreciates well enough. 

As if to prove her point, Jackass pours her the same liquor she has had for the past three nights and slides it over to her. 

When 2B reaches for it, however, the glass is slid out of reach and Jackass leans in to ask, as if in exchange for her drink, 

“What are you keeping in your basement?” 

2B stares impassively at her, silent. It’s a stare that would make anyone else flinch. The fault probably lies in her eyes––too vast, feeling of electricity, and power beyond comprehension. But Jackass only shrugs. 

“I can smell it on you. The thrall of a demon.” 

Because of course she can _smell_ it right off of her clothes. 

“An incubus,” 2B answers, and finally takes the drink. The amber liquid sloshes in the crystal glass, sparkling deceptively bright in the dim lighting of the tavern. Steam curls away from the rim, although it is neither heated nor iced. 

“An incubus, hm? Fragile, dainty things. No meat on their bones.” Jackass chuckles darkly at her own joke. 

Curious whimsy satisfied, unimpressed, and mild disinterest taking its place. Jackass retreats, like a lazy predator that’s gotten its fill for the time being. 

2B sips her drink and tries not to think about the grasping thrall of the incubus, piercing through the walls of her home. Tries not remember listening to the call of a helpless creature, confused and alone, who doesn’t understand why this is happening, why it has to happen to him. 

Every day and night she feels herself being _summoned_ to her basement below. The ability is part of a demon’s skillset, she knows. For seducing, for luring prey within easy reach, a thrall that only feels hurt and confused—mindless… _agonizing_ —because it is coming from a hungry demon. 

She has no reason to trust it. 

2B sips her drink and tries not to remember the tragic, desperate cry that sounds entirely too _young_. 

And she wonders why she hasn’t ended the pitiful thing’s suffering already. 

There’s no lying now, no use for excuses when she has already condemned herself for what she is doing. 

Jackass comes back, after a while, towards the end of the night and the arrival of morning, returns to 2B where she sits, as a lone, dark shadow, at the end of the bar. 

Jackass comes meandering back, and 2B can tell that boredom has struck again. “So what are you planning on doing with that demon?” 

There’s a while of silence, so long that Jackass begins to turn away thinking that 2B may never answer––

“Nothing.” 

Surprise, idle amusement. Jackass raises an eyebrow at her. “Just going to let it starve?” 

“I haven’t decided yet what I’ll do with the demon,” 2B corrects, but it’s already too late. 

“You know what they say about solitary confinement?” 

There’s something in 2B that flinches, but she knows better than to show such things to hunters like the one standing before her. “What do they say?”

“They say that it kills. That the loneliness is like torture.” Jackass makes a careless gesture, flippant and without regard for her words as she normally is. “Leave it alone for a few more days, and you won’t have to deal with it soon enough, I suppose.” 

Heart twisting, guilt warming in her gut. 

She has slaughtered countless swarms of demons, she has bathed in their black blood until it feels as if she can never wash it off, so why is it that _this one_ is so hard for her to kill, even in mercy? 

Jackass laughs roughly at 2B’s silence, brings the bottle around to refill her empty glass. “Drink your fill until you feel like you’ve done the right thing.” 

Fingers curl around the glass, soft leather gloves with the glyphs of their profession curling at the wrists to ward off sharpened teeth, biting fangs. 2B raises the glass to her lips, something terrible and bitter in her gaze. 

She offers a silent toast to the Moon, and drinks.


	3. With Eyes Unclouded

Dawn, pale curling fingers of pink and gold reaching across the din of the sky. It’s dawn when she finally wanders back home. 

The call of the incubus intrudes upon her senses even before she reaches her threshold. It’s almost unbearable at this point. She feels herself being directed to her basement, tugging at her feet, almost as if a physical pulling. Although she has the Marks to ward against such things, it still causes no small amount of disquiet to her. 

But despite the unnatural urging, despite the near certainty that danger may await her down below, she makes her decision. 

With amber swirling in her gut and liquid courage boistering her will, 2B opens the door and descends the stairs. 

Halfway down, she stops. 

Cold shock. Eyes wide in horror. 

_Oh…_

A broken form, crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. Twisted limbs and mangled feathers. 

The steel chain slack on the floor, looping and twisting. Blood, staining the floor, seeping into the runic etchings. The metallic stench makes her nose sting, her eyes water. 

Thin shoulders tremble terribly as they shift, dragging himself from the ground with the exertion of a sick and dying creature. Pale eyes widen when they catch sight of her frozen figure at the stairs. 

A shuddering breath, faded and desperate-sounding, as he stares up at her with eyes so full of pure, bitter _hope_ that she feels her breath catch slightly. 

Lips part, cracked and speckled in dried blood, burn wounds at the corners yet unhealed. 

“P-please––” 

Rasping, whispering breath. A dry swallow, audible in the stunned silence. 

“I’m so _hungry_ …” 

His voice breaks on the last word and it ends with a low whine, small and pathetic. The creature’s head falls down once more, presenting his neck to her, temple coming to rest against the steel shackles on his wrists on the floor in a gesture that is purely _submissive_. 

The words tumble from his lips without room for thought in his misery. “Please… d-don’t go, don’t leave m-me––alone––please, pleaseplease _please_ ––” 

He takes a ragged breath, and _trembles_. 

Tears spill, hot and heavy, falling from his eyes, and cutting shining paths down his face. They dot the floor beneath him and he lets out a broken sob. 

“M-mercy, _please_ ––” 

Eyes wide, breath caught in her throat. 2B nearly takes a step back because now she sees the full truth of what she has been keeping locked up and alone in her basement. 

Now she sees the incubus, sees him as he is: Laid open and vulnerable. 

Starved and desperate for any semblance of life and company, taken by panic. Overwhelmed by the utter, all-consuming fear that she would abandon him once again. 

This cannot be something engineered. Cannot be something designed to evoke pity and sympathy so as to make prey and victims more susceptible. No one can fake this.

And the slow realization finally comes to her. The realization that it is––

Real. 

Devastatingly, horrifyingly real. 

_(Is she any better than those two brothers?)_

* * *

He hears the sounds of approach, barely reaching his ears through the roaring howl of his hunger. 

The hunter returns. 

Hope surges in him with such ferocity that somehow, somewhere he gathers enough strength to lift his head up. 

The sight of the hunter brings such relief to him and he eagerly drinks in her presence with a desperation that edges on greedy, despite those eyes staring down at him with _distrust_. 

Dignity lost when he was first captured. 

Pride, long forgotten. 

Everything in the world falls away until all that he knows is his ravenous hunger and the hunter standing before him. 

And 

he begs. 

For sustenance, for something to fill that growing void inside him, for a quicker death than this––he doesn’t know what he’s begging for. He doesn’t entirely know what is coming out of his mouth, but all he wants is an end to this torture. 

He’s tired.

* * *

There is no decision to make. No room for doubt or distrust. 2B takes two steps forward, raises a gloved hand to rest against the runic pattern on the wall, something inside her twisting when she sees the minute flinch the incubus makes at the action. 

The runes are the first to go. She reaches out with her mind, thoughts–– _tweaking_ ––and the runes deactivate. Gravity lightens and unearthly power trickles away, the light hum of energy fading into heavy silence. 

She comes closer, pauses only a few steps away. Wariness makes her stop and think, an automatic vigilance ingrained into her through the decades, instinctual at this point. 

Slowly, so as not to startle the poor creature more, she kneels––bent knee resting on the floor, the other foot flat to keep balance. Hands raised slightly, coaxing, _beckoning._

“Come,” she murmurs. 

There’s a noise, high and _shattered_ , and suddenly she finds herself with an armful of small limbs, feathered wings, a horned head pressing itself into her chest. 

She freezes, spine stiffening. Fingers twitch, all too ready to rip the demon away from her, those fangs so close to her jugular. 

Then he whines, breathlessly, _helplessly_. And he turns his face away, burying himself in the thick cloth at her shoulder, as if he had sensed her alarm. 

There’s a sniffle, a tremble through his body, and the creature in her embrace sounds so miserable and _distressed_ that she cannot help herself. Finally she allows herself to relax, to slide her hands up his sides and reposition him into a more comfortable arrangement in her arms. 

Chain and shackles fall away at her light touch, revealing deep welts, raw skin and red blisters from constant chafing against the metal. 

He makes a soft sound of _surprise_ when she stands up, little hands scrambling to grip desperately at her clothes. 

With one arm wrapped around his slender waist, supporting his weight easily with a grip around his thigh, she lifts her other hand to brush away the lingering tears on his face. He shudders, leans into the gentle contact as if seeking more. 

He’s so soft, so pliant in her hands. So willing to simply rest limply in her arms, open to any form of kindness, as touch-starved and frightened as he is. 

So eager to find comfort in the arms of his enemy, even after she had chained and starved him. He forgives so easily, his blind trust in her makes him feel more vulnerable in her arms than anything else. 

And she–– _regrets._

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. There are locks of hair that fall into the incubus’ eyes and she brushes them away, a tender touch that has him listing into it. “I just… didn’t know what to do with you.” 

She still doesn’t. 

“I thought you would eat me,” she says, even though she knows that a hunter like her, however coveted, won’t be easy to overpower. She would not fall to defeat quietly.

* * *

He curls into her bonelessly, sighing and burrowing deeper as if he could simply wrap himself in the hunter’s powerful presence. 

An apology, spoken soft and low and unmistakably _genuine_. He gets an air of honesty––candidness––from the hunter. She is someone who would not speak words she did not believe. 

But at her next words, understandable yet untrue, he has to open his mouth to protest, “No—never…” 

He shakes his head, mindful of his horns digging into the hunter’s shoulder. 

“We incubi survive on love,” he tells her, lips divulging secrets of his kind with only a moment of hesitation. “––I-it doesn’t have to be sex. Just… affection. Kindness.” 

The ones who spread that awful image—demons who take delight in ravanging villages and spilling blood, demons who rape and pillage and destroy their way through the world, demons who commit atrocities and unspeakable abominations––those are the true monsters of his kind. 

They all were once born of the damned flame, have crawled from the ashes bearing something bright, something warm, something

soft,

with beatless hearts bare, young, and hopeful. 

The true demons are born when that helpless flame is snuffed away, extinguished slowly and gradually and cruelly. When senses are lost to the void of eternity, when they are left abandoned in the cold emptiness for too long, scraped bloody by the unrelenting flow of time. 

Some demons are born of vengeance, some are spawned from rage and blistering fury at the utter injustice of the world. Other demons are birthed from regrets, full of bitterness and obsession and unmitigated disappointment at everything in the universe. 

But the oldest of them are the most monstrous, because they all had once loved something. 

He turns his face, all of a sudden fearful that these crucial bits of information would be used against him. Scared that he had somehow made a mistake. 

“We just… need someone to _care_... ” He squeezes his eyes shut, so scared that his admission would suddenly earn him a twist in demeanor––perhaps a cruel smile, taunting words, more imagined methods of torture. 

But it doesn’t come. 

Her hand slides up, instead, to cup the vulnerable nape of his neck. He feels her tug, gentle guidance by the base of his skull, and he has no choice but to do as directed. 

Head shifting, his eyes slowly turn upward and he sees––

A mole near the chin, full lips, pert nose, 

And up—

Pale eyes framed by long lashes, gazing down at him with an infinite wealth of power churning just beneath the surface. 

His heart misses the next beat, pinned beneath those grey-blue eyes. It leaves him breathless as his heart trips and stutters its way back to a normal rhythm. 

But that incredible gaze is soon drawn away, alighting on something that makes her mouth twist. He glances down. 

Raw wrists and blistering burns, blood beneath his nails and bruises blooming blue-black across his flesh. 

Her next words, spoken quietly, are full of pity––and regret. 

“I locked you up… left you here to starve.” 

He shakes his head. “How could you have known? I can’t blame you for ignorance.” 

There’s a pause, then the hunter _smiles_ , small but sweet, just a little quirk of the lips. 

“I’ve never met a demon like you.” she murmurs, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Most demons in my experience are mindless animals, only looking so as far as the next innocent to kill. But you… you’re… rather _sweet,_ , for a demon.” 

“Many demons are––feral. I’m… still young, for my kind. I haven’t… haven’t lost myself yet.” The words come ungainly to him, awkward and graceless as he tries to put his existence into words that can be understood by creatures who are not demons. 

He curls tighter, closer. Relishes the warmth seeping through the hunter’s garb, smelling faintly of leather, alcohol… metal and fire. 

Metal and fire––faint, lingering scents infused so deeply into her very being they can never be washed away. He wonders how many of his brethren has been _exterminated_ by the very hands that touch him with such gentleness. 

The hunter, still carrying him in one arm, starts moving towards the stairs. 

Her next question takes him by surprise: “Do you have a name?” 

He tilts his head, bewildered. “No—just a title… 9S.” 

She stops abruptly. He looks up, and there’s startled confusion in the hunter’s expression, an eyebrow quirked, and vague intrigue. “Who gave you that title?” she asks. 

“I––” He thinks. Recollection yields nothing. Darkness beyond awakening from the cold depths of the ocean with nothing but knowledge of his existence as a condemned creature and his title burned into his mind. “I don’t know.” 

“Hm…” With a thoughtful hum, dissatisfied yet unable to resolve it, the hunter resumes her pace. 

He waits a moment before his damned curiosity has the question spilling from his lips. “What’s your name?” 

A while of silence. Thoughtful, still touched with wariness. The hunter reaches the stairs and begins to climbs the stairs with neat, purposeful strides, before she answers his question. 

“I was given the title 2B,” she says. 

2B. 

_The Second Bastion._

Even he’s heard of her. A living legend. 

(And indeed, how _curious_ that some demons and some hunters are the same in the same way of titles.) 

Eyes wide, he sucks in a breath. The heady amount of power he feels in her makes more sense now, when he knows just _whose_ arms has him their hold. 

A powerful and seasoned Hunter, unmatched despite her relative youth. A lone figure in the distance, surrounded by the corpses of her enemies, be it demon or human. At the mere age of twenty-six, her name has risen above her peers, known throughout the kingdoms and the dark realms, bringing pride and glory to her guild. 

The circles he’s a part of speak of her in hushed tones and awed whispers. Fear bright in their eyes, with covert glances behind shoulders as if uttering her very name would summon the hunter herself, with blades awhirl and eyes aglow with _power_ , come to exact her Goddess’s vengeance upon their heads. 

He shudders. Suddenly wants to shrink away, but he’s trapped against her. Can’t _move_ , can’t escape that hold, not when she can simply crush him with but a thought. 

He thinks of chains, thinks of iron and burning flesh. He remembers being pulled from that awful prison, remembers the way she _apologized_ to him. Thinks that maybe–– _maybe_ ––all horrors he’s heard told in juxtaposition to her title cannot possibly be all there is to the hunter. 

And his curiosity _hungers_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have completely given up on my beautiful, flowery, poetic writing style. It’s exhausting. Forgive me.


	4. Demon Care

She finds out that incubi are not the rapists and soulless butchers she has always thought them all to be, but creatures who live on _kindness_. 

The mere thought seems blasphemous, dangerously close to betraying the teachings of the guilds: to see demons as nothing but their prey, to see these infernal creatures as nothing but a disease of the world. 

The teachings describe the demons as pests, as things to exterminate. There is no humanity to be found in demons, no soul, and no redemption for them. 

No more than animals, like wolves killing farmers’ sheep. The Hunters are called to protect their flock, and they are bound to their oath. 

But the little incubus in her arms is warm and soft, his acceptance of her touch so unhesitating, so instinctual. His breath brushes against her collar and his heart beats within his ribs—infrequent and inhumanly slow—but all indications of a living creature capable of emotion. 

There is a moment, spent in part speculation and in part marvel. To think that some demons and humans can be so similar in design, so very much alike not in blood or physical form, but in all the ways that matter… Had the gods truly intended it to be this way? 

For a moment, 2B… _doubts_. 

But she knows her blood vows, and she knows her Goddess. She Who cares not for lies, nor for deceit. She Who is Old and Great, ancient, wise, and all-knowing, with dominion vast beyond comprehension. 

Her Goddess is a god who is a fair judge and quick to anger, full of vengeance and majesty. 

And humans are often fools. 

Her title is spoken, and afterwards there’s a tremor that runs down the length of the body she’s carrying. She feels his wings shift restlessly, brush against her arm as if in agitation. 

But she knows that her grip is firm, and that any attempt to escape will be met with indomitable force. 

The building she owns is small but functional, baring the slightest of human dwelling only if one looked carefully enough. A few scattering of books, a cloak hung near the door, the faint smell of honey and silver polish lingering in the air. 

Though minimal, there is a simple washroom on the second floor, connected to her bedroom—this is where she goes. 

The incubus has been obedient so far, but she knows how there is a window in the hall just outside the room, all too aware of the thin glass and his wings, doubtlessly capable of flight. Freedom beckons too sweetly to creatures of his ilk. 

“9S,” she says, feeling the title rest oddly against her tongue as she says it. Names, titles… they all are unique to each individual. No two people have the same. 

And indeed, giving a _demon_ something so specific, so exclusive and special, only makes him seem more… well. Human is too inaccurate a word and empathetic jumps too far down the spectrum. Sentient is too inadequate a term. 

_The demon_ is an agreeably distant and cold moniker, keeping her perspective safely removed from the situation. To call him _9S_ , however, makes his existence more tangible, his circumstances all the more sympathetic. 

Call him 9S, and he becomes _real._

At her voice, he turns his head upward. His pale gaze seeks out hers, and the expression on his face is expectant, waiting. 

“Hunters will not hesitate to kill creatures like you,” she tells him, though it must be common knowledge already. Still, she has to _remind_ him. “We do not differentiate between your ilk, nor do we ask questions of our prey, unless it is to further the hunt. 

“I am strong. One of the strongest of all Hunters. My abode is secure, and there is not a single being who has dared to intrude upon it in all the time I have claimed this place as my own.”

* * *

_Do not try to escape. Step foot out of my domain, go beyond my reach, and I won’t be able to protect you._

Through all the terrible events he’d gone through, he never would have expected that in the end, he would be offered the protection of the Hunter 2B. He knows what she is offering, can hear the hidden meaning between the words. Accept her protection, and give up his freedom in return. 

He bows his head, resting his forehead against her shoulder. He closes his eyes. 

“I understand,” whispers 9S. 

The hunter studies him for a few moments longer, then, as if deeming his affirmation to be sincere, turns to the bathtub. 

The bronze faucets squeak when they turn. Hot water gushes out in a torrent, hitting the ceramic tub and quickly filling it. Steam curls from the churning water’s surface, catching the light overhead and turning into golden mist. 

He flinches when she tries to set him down on the sink ledge. He feels her grip loosen, feels her pull away, and finds those few meager centimeters of physical separation suddenly _unbearable_. 

His breath catches on something. 

He can’t lose this. 

9S reaches out, almost falls from his perch, as he tries to pull a surprised 2B back, frantically digging his fingers into whatever he can grasp. 

Leather, sleeves, the lapels on her coat––he feels the stiffening of posture, the tensing of muscle as 2B fights against the natural instinct to react to a perceived attack. Feels the effort she exerts to force herself to relax. 

He _whines_ , wraps his arms around her waist and buries his head into her stomach, fingers grasping at bunches of her coat in order to keep her near. 

A brief moment of hesitation, surprised and bewildered. Then, 

“9S. You are injured and your wounds need to be cleaned. I cannot help if you… _impede_ me like this.” 

“––don’t care,” he gasps out against her clothes. His voice is small, panicked, desperate. “I don’t care. Please don’t––don’t take this away from me.” 

Fingers settle into his hair, parting the locks in a strangely gently manner. 

There’s a sigh, then she pulls his hands away, carefully but firmly detaching herself from his grip. 

It feels as if he’s been struck in the abdomen, and he chokes. Panic wells up in him, blinding and overwhelming, filling his gut, rising to his throat. 

But before he can drown in it, there’s a faint rustle, something heavy dropping to the floor. Hands reach for him barely a moment later, sliding around his waist. 

He allows himself to be lifted once again, and when 2B draws him into her embrace, he meets the soft fabric of a shirt instead of the leather of her coat. 

Gasping softly in surprise, his eyes open and he sees––

White fabric, the silky undershirt of 2B’s outfit. Bare hands and rolled up sleeves, the Marks that the hunters are so partial to spilling out on her skin beneath the creased cloth. The hunter’s outer garb discarded on the floor, leather gloves tossed on top without thought. 

A soft, broken sound escapes from his lips, and he clings desperately onto that shirt, wings curling, grateful beyond measure. 

She carries him, arm wrapped around his upper body and the other supporting his weight under his knees, and steps gingerly over the lip of the bathtub, into the steaming water. 

He jumps when he feels the water touch his skin, soaking him immediately through his shorts, his shirt which hung in tattered shreds, barely staying on him. The water makes his burns throb anew with pain, stinging his open cuts. 

2B brings them both to sit in the bathtub, submerged in warm water, with 9S settled between her long legs, his back facing her chest. 

Movement behind him, and he glances nervously behind him. 2B has gotten a cloth from the side ledge, dipping it in the water and wringing it out. 

“Look at me,” she says, and he obeys, turning his head. 

Cradling the back of his head with a hand, she cleans the lingering blood on his face, from his mouth where the iron bit had cut into his lips. He flinches when the cloth brushes over the burns there, unable to contain a wince at the sharp sting. 

Fingers pluck at the tattered remains of his shirt and she makes a noise of displeasure. 

At her direction, he holds himself still as she takes two ends of the shirt and rips it clean down the middle. Casting it aside to be disposed of, 2B returns to her task. 

Soap, faintly smelling of honey, is brought to his hair. Fingers slide through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, lathering and scrubbing. He can’t help but lean into it, eyes fluttering shut.

* * *

Water, poured over that little head. Washing away soap and dirt and sweat. Pale hair, previously clumped by dried blood and old tears, now shines once again in the light, gleaming wetly and silk to touch. 

She watches in a heavy-lidded gaze as dust and blood is scrubbed away. Watches as injuries and more bruises are revealed, painting themselves across his body like paint on a canvas. 

And the burns––from where the chains had touched him––red and blistering strips spiraling down his slender legs and arms, crossing over his chest and continuing on to his back. 

She remembers how she had found the incubus. How the iron chains had been bound so tightly that he could not even _move_. 

She works in a meditative pace, neat and efficient, cleaning the filth from his body. 

The water quickly turns gray and murky, swirling with tuffs of down and broken feathers, so she gets up to drain it. As the tub refills, she is standing in it once again with 9S tucked neatly in her arms. Her soaked clothes cling to her uncomfortably. Hot water swirls around her feet. 

The discomfort of wet clothes is familiar enough to her (though it usually isn’t simply water) and the temperature is a mere trifle. 

Her attention is spent on the body she holds. On the bare skin she can now feel with gloveless hands, on the slippery sheen on those surfaces not marred by wounds. 

Distracted thoughts, attention straying. Shameless. She should know better than this. 

Water droplets trickle down delicate features, tracing a long, delicate neck and catching on collar bones. 

Incubi, she knows, are designed with bodies built to please. 

That these creatures survive on companionship, on affection and care and _compassion_ ––she never would have guessed. 

2B rises from the bathtub, water sluicing off their bodies as she lifts 9S out.

* * *

He sways somewhat unsteadily on his feet when he’s let down, wings flapping a bit to bolster his balance. 

The tiled floor is cold beneath his feet, slick with water dripping from himself. Before he can shiver, however, a towel is thrown over his head—massive thick white cloth enveloping him in a simile of an embrace. 

2B has large hands, he notices. Big palms and long, elegant fingers. Blunt, neatly trimmed nails. Comforting to be held by, even when he knows they are more than capable of killing. Currently, they’re toweling dry his hair. 

When he is deemed dry enough—his wings would have to let air dry—he is led to the adjacent bedroom, where he receives a shirt to wear. 

2B takes it out of her own closet, and cuts large slits into it for his wings to fit through. 

“Only temporary,” she assures him, as she helps him put it on. 

The shirt is too big on him, sleeves overtaking his hands and the hem reaching just a little above mid-thigh. He’s thankful for it—his shorts had been in the same state of his shirt, torn and irrecoverable. 

Bare, all except for the shirt which barely covers his more intimate parts. He is all too aware of how he appears in his current state. 

The bath, the carrying, the physical contact, they had all helped to make his hunger abate. But… he holds back a wince as something in his gut stabs with a hunger pang. It isn’t enough. 

Sex, he knows, would satisfy it the easiest, the quickest. 

He is young, for his kind. Young, but potent. 

With the hunter’s growing trust in him and his current state of undress, it would be all too easy to lure her into a more… _volatile_ position. 

He would never, though. _Couldn’t_ ever. 

Another demon wouldn’t hesitate. No matter how great or powerful the demon, there are things in the world—such as hunger and loneliness—that can easily consume beasts greater than them. 

It is a common thing for incubi to tempt someone regardless of their willingness. But 9S is not a simple sex-crazed animal, has not allowed himself to be lowered to that level. He has not yet reached the point where he would do something as repulsive as that. 

Another wave of hunger wracks through his body, painful, intense, devastating. This time it leaves him breathless, weak in the knees and fumbling to catch himself on the edge of the bed beside him. 

“What’s wrong?” 

A hand, reaching over to cup his face, and he leans into it with a helpless whine as he struggles to catch his breath. 

“I…” His eyebrows furrow and he closes his eyes, trying to focus.

* * *

2B observes the incubus, and while she can guess what it’s clear that he needs, she still has to ask what it is that he _wants_. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

Her hand wraps around his jaw, sweeping a thumb against his cheek. And he leans into the contact as if magnetized, unaware and utterly sweet in his need, savoring even the littlest of scraps of her affection. 

“I’m… _hungry_ ,” he seems to struggle with the words, a frown appearing on his face. 

A pant, a breath, and he asks, so hesitatingly, “Can… can you kiss me?” 

Her shirt is too big on him. It does nothing but enhance the smooth expanse of his legs, broken only by the burns. It slips down his shoulder, revealing a sharp collarbone, the only halfway-buttoned neckline teasing at a nipple. 

How _base_ must humanity be, how perverted and vile––to see a slender waist, slim ankles and fragile wrists, soft skin––and _assume_. Pretty features and a vulnerable gaze, and it is naturally a creature meant for the impurest of sexual fantasies. 

Creatures so beautifully designed, so inhumanly perfect that it is made a crime by foolish mortals who simply cannot understand what their eyes are seeing. 

I am a crude woman, thinks 2B solemnly, as she wrap her hands around his waist and pulls him closer to her.

She sits on the edge of her bed with the incubus practically in her lap, small and vulnerable and frustratingly _irresistible._

2B leans over and gives that exposed collar a little peck, making 9S jolt in his place. Another kiss, placed on the spot of his neck where his pulse would be. Then, shifting higher, a soft, lingering kiss at the corner of his mouth, still red and burnt by that despicable iron bit. 

9S squirms and twists in her arms, a noise escaping from him. 

It is a noise that sounds so desperate, so _tragic_ , 2B cannot help but grip him tighter, press her lips to his forehead as if to ease his pain. 

Her hand slides up to tangle fingers in damp hair, and she tilts his head up to catch those lips with her own. 

There’s a gasp against her mouth—surprise, shock, overwhelming relief. 

And he sighs into the kiss, soft, melting. 

2B tastes something sweet, feels a small grip on her clothes—spelled dry with a touch of will applied to the runes embroidered in the seams. Another breath, shaky and _shattered_ , and 9S whimpers into her mouth. 

A tug, then a definite _pull_ , and she nearly breaks the kiss. 

Something is drawn out, bit by bit. Something deep within her that feels of heavy rolling thunder and crackling lightning in the distance, tasting of of moonlight and another quieter, older whisper. 

Vitality, or the spirit of a living creature, dragged from the vast reserves she holds within herself. So this, she thinks, this is what would sate his hunger. She thinks about withdrawing, wary of a demon’s rumored greed. Disturbed by becoming another’s prey out of her own will. 

But… 

Already, he looks— _better_. 

Color back in his face, fingertips warm once again, shoulders no longer trembling out of the pain of hunger and fatigue. 

And now he is a warm mass in her lap, pressed flush against her and limp in his relief. 

Like two pieces of a puzzle meant to fit together, 9S feels so... _right_ in her hold, so absolute despite the disconcerting loss of vitality. 

There’s a sense of completeness, a sense of true belonging, contentment humming inside her. Bewildering, though she finds no alarm in it. 

Eyes lowering to half-mast, laying back against the mattress, and 9S falls with her with a languid ease. The shirt slips, and she cannot resist pressing kisses to the slender neck she finds so temptingly exposed. 

The noise 9S makes, despite everything in herself, delights 2B to no end. 

Breathing out slowly, 2B closes her eyes, lax and tired from three nights’ worth of little to no rest. 

The pull of energy wavers, and then it peters out. The weight on her chest shifts, and 2B cracks open an eye to see 9S looking at her something worried in his expression. 

Fingers still petting through short locks of hair, she pulls him towards herself once again, to sweetly kiss her way to his mouth. 

“Take,” she murmurs against his lips. “I have well enough to spare.” 

A moment of hesitation, then the flow of vitality resumes. She breathes out with it, the siphon of life, feeding the demon above her.


End file.
